Thankless in Death

up what he termed his Shit List, studied the names, the addresses he’d found, the workplaces he either knew or had been able to find.
    Beside each were their offenses, and his current—subject to change—method of making them pay.
    He’d have been surprised to see just how closely Eve’s list aligned with his. But he didn’t think about the police. He’d begun to consider himself a professional. After all, each kill had generated pay—payback and cash.
    Jerry Reinhold—and he had another program with possible codenames—was a Hit Man with a (S)Hit List. It cracked him up. After he’d worked his way through his own list, he’d use the code name and hire himself out.
    His current favorite was Cobra. Fast and deadly. Except he really liked Reaper. As in Grim.
    As he studied his list, he relived each insult, embarrassment, rejection.
    He thought of how it would feel to burn Marlene Wizlet’s pretty face with acid until she looked like a monster. Then he’d force her to look at herself—before he slit her throat.
    Teach her to flip him off, teach her to think she was better than he was. And she’d made some good money, he was sure, whoring her face, the one he’d ruin, her body.
    And the Schumakers. God, he hated them. He’d get plenty from them. He figured on beating the old man to death, drowning the old hag in her own bathtub.
    Coach Boyd, good old Coach Boyd. That would be the best time ever. Wanna see me swing away? He’d figure out how to get inside Boyd’s place—just figure it out. Then he’d rape the wife right in front of him. Then he’d get busy with the snips. He really wanted to use those snips. And when that was done, he’d beat the bastard’s brains out with his trusty bat.
    Pure satisfaction.
    Even if he didn’t get much profit out of Boyd, that would be—what was it? Yeah, yeah, a labor of love.
    He cracked himself up again, kept going down his list.
    He changed a few methods. He had enough money now to get his hands on a stunner. You could do a lot with a stunner. And he figured he’d pick up a hammer, maybe a saw.
    A guy wanted to be well-rounded.

    He thought of Mal. The way to Mal—what kind of friend boots you just because you were short on the rent—was through his mother. That pushy bitch. He liked the idea of the hammer there. First mother, then son.
    But not quite yet.
    He smiled as he studied his next pick. Oh yeah, that would be good. That would be fun—and he knew just how to pick up the bucks for his profit on that one.
    “Asshole, where’s my pizza! And bring me a damn beer.”
    He took a few more minutes to go over his plan. Jesus, it was really so simple. Why hadn’t he ever thought of doing all this before?
    The droid brought pizza and beer on a tray, with a napkin.
    Not bad.
    “Go on out there, active rest. I want you around if I need you.”
    “Yes, sir. Enjoy your pizza.”
    “Bet your ass.”
    He switched the screen to entertainment, scrolled through his choices, settled on porn.
    He amused himself with pizza, beer, and violent sex until he dropped contentedly off to sleep.

17
    SHE WOKE EARLY AND ALONE. IN THE MURKY light before dawn she felt the alone even before her eyes adjusted.
    Roarke was up and … somewhere already, she thought. She’d have wondered how he managed to rise, even shine so damn early, but even as she lay there she knew she’d finished with sleep herself.
    Her mind had already circled to Reinhold.
    Even as she sat up she cued into the snoring, a sound even kindness and affection couldn’t term a purr. She made out the heap of fur and limbs that was Galahad at the foot of the bed.
    At least somebody knew how to sleep until actual morning, she thought, and shoved out of bed.
    She’d grab a workout and a quick swim, she decided. Tune everything up since she had the time. She hunted up ancient sweat shorts, a support tank, tossed an NYPSD T-shirt over it.

    The cat never stirred, the snoring never ceased while she pulled on shoes, then slipped into the elevator.
    A hard thirty-minute run, she calculated, maybe fifteen on weights, ending with fifty laps in the pool.
    She stepped out in the pool area with its lush plants, exotic flowers, deep blue water. Of all the luxuries, the indulgences spread through the home that Roarke built, she considered the pool her biggest personal perk.
    Tempting, she mused, to just strip off and dive in, but more satisfying to work up a sweat first.
    And circling around toward the gym, she saw the